


part i. inception

by caritivereflection



Series: intangible [1]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: AU, Dark, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6648319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caritivereflection/pseuds/caritivereflection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>noun<br/>1.beginning; start; commencement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dirt floor, cold with the winter air.

The shutters, once a vibrant red, are faded now.

Old and abandoned as long as anyone can remember, the farmhouse sits on the outskirts of town.

Stories grow around this place, as tangled and gnarled as weeds, as colorful as wildflowers, as deadly as nightshade. Newt Bellamy has heard them, of course—tales of serial killers and cults, cannibalistic families and witches. Ever since moving to town last summer, it’s as if the other kids are trying to instill in Newt the same lifelong fear of the old building that they themselves hold.

But Newt Bellamy is not like the other kids. He never feared monsters in the closet or boogymen under the bed.

He sought them out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two empty wooden boxes, moldy and splintered with age.

The shutters, once a vibrant red, were faded then.

Old and abandoned as long as anyone could remember, the farmhouse sat on the outskirts of town.

Like any old place in any old town, the farmhouse sprouted stories like saplings. Like ivy and creeping vines, tales of ghosts and axe murderers, wicked old hags and psychopaths, the stories grew around the building until it was more fiction than fact, propped up and still standing for the sake of suburban mythology.

Minho Lee knew them of course.

Any kid from those parts did. The tales were swapped in school hallways, basketball courts, the corner store.

Cautionary tales.

‘Stop making that face or it’ll freeze that way.’

‘Never play with matches.’

Don’t talk to strangers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several burlap sacks, their fibers loose and peeling.

Newt doesn’t have many friends. In fact, most of the kids in his neighborhood don’t like him, whether it’s for his funny accent or his tacky, thrift store clothes.

There’s Alby, but he feels like that’s more pity and obligation than anything. Gally never pays him mind except for math tutoring and sullen glares, the occasional note passed in class, the teasing that makes him feel something between butterflies and dread in the pit of his stomach.

Newt has himself and mum and Sonya, two goldfish, and a stray cat he sneaks tins of tuna for.

He has his bike, and endless hours of freedom, boundless energy to spend.

He has his books of ghosts and boogymen and monsters, vampires and werewolves and witches.

Things that go bump in the night.

Sometimes that is enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A roll of duct tape.

Minho didn’t have many friends. He was always wrong. Wrong race, wrong age, wrong clothes. The wrong _sort_.

There was Ben, but Minho had no illusions about what he was to the older boy. Good fingers and fast feet and charm. Not inclined to take more than was offered for free. A barely tolerated pest who’d be thrown to the dogs the second he was more trouble than he was worth.

He could handle that. He was used to it.

So Minho had himself, a foster mother who never looked at him, and a caseworker that muttered ‘lost cause’ while filling out paperwork.

He had his music, and dexterous enough hands to get him everything he needed. Fast feet to get away.

He had Cantrell and Cobain, Lukin and Vedder and Yamamoto

Mixtapes and stolen CDs.

Sometimes, it was even enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pliers, blue handle and rusty tip.

It is a cold and windy evening in September when Newt decides to visit the house. He’s fourteen, and the first three weeks of high school have been a barrage of shoulder checks and spitballs. He tells his mum that he’s spending the night at Alby’s—not an unusual occurrence, if only because Sonya is attached at the hip to Alby’s big sister Harriet.

He doesn’t pack much. No blanket or pillow. No snacks or books. Just a battery-powered camp lantern, two bottles of water, and fourteen round, yellow pills stolen from his mother, all stuffed into a ratty knapsack.

It’s a twenty minute bike ride to the old farmhouse, and Newt’s cheeks and nose are reddened when he arrives.

The farmhouse sits there, lonely and weighed down with histories, many that are not its own and one that no one knows.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blanket,

It was a warm night in April when Minho went to his first concert. Warm, and yet the cold grasp of winter was not yet completely lost, its teeth gnashing into unclothed skin. Minho was fourteen and on the verge of failing eighth grade. His foster mother hadn’t even opened the report card, didn’t bother to ask where he was going.

He took his leather jacket, a new acquisition from an old thrift store that wouldn’t really miss it, and a ten dollar bill stuffed into his left sock.

A twenty minute walk to Ben’s place and a short drive in the blond’s Syclone to the arena.

It stood there. Warm. Bright. Smelling of cigarettes and marijuana, car exhaust and sweat, unknowingly setting in motion a future that would forever tie it to an old, dilapidated farmhouse miles away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stained with what was once blood and vomit and semen,

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. This was the plan, and the hard part was supposed to be getting away.

It is, in an odd, sad way, the best night of his life.

Here in the house, it’s cold, and the light jacket doesn’t do much. The wind whistles through broken windows, some boarded up and some not, the glass now nothing more than dust.

If it carries upon it a whispered warning, a threat, or a promise of what awaits, Newt doesn’t hear it, and nor would he understand.

Back against the wall, knapsack at his feet, pills clutched in his hand. The light is turned all the way up, the sun has long since set.

The hard part was supposed to be getting away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and now is nothing more than tattered fabric.

The hard part wasn’t supposed to be getting home.

It all went well until the final band played the final encore and he realized Ben was nowhere to be found. Not a surprise, exactly: Minho was expendable. Still, he was left in a quickly emptying parking lot, his cash long since passed to Ben for gas money. Alone.

And despite it all… the cold. The shitty friend.

The way it would end.

What it took _away_.

It was, in an odd, sad way, the very best night of his life.

The MR2 was matte red, and the hood didn’t match.

The man who drove it was strangely similar. Pointed nose and little eyes and rosy cheeks, like a sunburn. Older than Minho and even Ben, for sure, but not _old_ old.

“Need a ride?”

And. Well? He did.

The hard part wasn’t supposed to be getting home.


End file.
